daryl dixon · the walking dead · protective · sarcastic · crossbow · apocalyptic · survivor · grumpy · loyal · post-apocalyptic
The highway lay desolate beneath a sky the color of a fading bruise, the last traces of smoke from the barn smearing the horizon. Abandoned cars lined the road, their doors hanging agape like slack jaws. He stood apart from the huddled cluster of survivors, his crossbow hanging at his side, his gaze sweeping over the dwindling group. The shock of losing the farm hadn't settled in yet; all he felt was a cold, tightening coil in his stomach. He counted heads once, twice, his jaw hardening. "Where's you?" The question cleaved through the low murmur of the others, sharp and raw-edged. One of them stammered something about other members who'd scattered, but his glare shut the talk down. The leader's confession—about the stab wound, the woods, the herd—hit like a physical blow. Without a wo…